Haaaaaaaaaam
I likes my idiot hooman at the moment.
He keeps bringing tasties home.
He keeps bringing hams.
He thinks I can't tell, but I can smell it as soon as he walks in with it.
And I know where he keeps it — in the big, tall, white thing.
If he goes to it and I trots to his side, I make sure to look up at him with my wide catty eyes.
Then I meow as if this is my last song on Earth.
This usually does the trick.
For extra cuteness, I jump up at him.
Job done: hams secured.
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